The Beginning of the End? An Alternative
by tpel
Summary: Not happy about Meisner being dead and Renard morphing into a cowardly jerk? Me neither! This story explores what might happen if things played out a little differently in a pivotal scene in the Season 5 Finale.
1. Chapter 1

This story is inspired by a conversation over in the Meisner appreciation thread on PreviouslyTV. Another poster, Darklazr, suggested a scenario in which Meisner's encounter with Bonaparte and Renard goes a little differently, and . . . well, I don't want to spoil things for people who don't read that thread. Enjoy!

XXXXX

Meisner pulled himself along the floor. He'd been crawling toward the door for hours, or so it seemed. It took him a moment to recall why:

 _Facing off with Renard in the wreckage of the control room. Bonaparte appears, shows his true face, his true power. Invisible grip slams my airway shut. Cold dread as I realize I can't inhale. Diaphragm fights in futile spasms. Every bit of strength working to pull in just a little oxygen. Nothing. Mein Gott it hurts. Lungs burning. Pressure building behind eyes. Building. Pounding. Throbbing._

 _Renard looks stricken. Tells Bonaparte to stop. Yeah, that's going to work. He glances down at his gun, brown eyes shifting from anxiety to calculation. Shooting at Bonaparte would be stupid: the monster can deflect a bullet, and Renard would lose his position with Black Claw and probably his life. He looks back at me apologetically. Is he going to shoot me? That doesn't sound as bad as it ought to. Maybe a bullet hole would let some air in._

 _Renard addresses Bonaparte: "This isn't about him. We both know Meisner would die by inches before telling you anything, and you haven't even bothered to ask him any questions. It's about me. You want to see what I'll do. Well, here's my answer: Hadrian's Wall is history . . ."_

 _Trying desperately to stay on my feet. No particular reason—just don't want to die on my knees. Gives me something to think about besides the fact that my fucking head is gonna explode. Stop. Make it stop._

 _Hard to hear over the rushing sound. Room tilts. I lose the battle to stay upright. Renard finishes with a flourish and a full woge: ". . . I'm only interested in the future."_

 _Backhand fist connects with my face as I fall forward, reversing my direction, sending me flying across the room, slamming into destroyed cabinets and equipment. Part of the pile of broken things. As everything goes dark, a tiny trickle of air tickles my throat._

That was . . . before. Meisner hadn't a clue how much time had passed. Maybe there were ways he could figure that out, but his brain wasn't up to doing anything more than forcing his body along the floor. Calling it 'crawling' was an overstatement. He dragged himself forward a few inches; he passed out; he woke up; repeat, repeat. Where he was going didn't bear much scrutiny—was he going to drag himself all the way to a hospital? But moving wasn't dying, so moving was good.

He woke up again, side of face pressed against the floor. Cheekbone might be cracked, courtesy of Renard. Fractures were a familiar sort of pain, not like the sickening ache in his head and the deep sense of damage pervading his body. His mind wandered over to Renard, but not Renard from today. Many years ago . . .

 _I'm maybe fourteen. Sean is about the same, but already half a foot taller. Papa and his Resistance friends let me do little things to stick it to the Royals. I do more damage behind their backs, sometimes with Sean when he's in the country. Now he's messing around, woging to scare some of the KSK kids in the group. We've all seen wesen woge before – my Judo teacher is an Eisbiber; I've known him half my life. But Zauberbiests are creepier than most. Tommy comes into the room. Sean lunges at him, snarling and woging. Tommy yells and stumbles backward, ending up against the wall. He manages not to cry – the ultimate humiliation for any twelve-year-old amidst a pack of teenagers – but barely. Sean, laughing, turns around . . . right into my fist. Nobody picks on my little brother._

 _Decades later, Sean tells that story to explain why he wants me for a job: "You didn't even wait for me to drop the woge. Most people would wait the five seconds until their opponent's strength-and-resistance-to-injury boost is gone, before starting a fight."_

" _So you're saying it didn't hurt enough, and I need to punch you again?"_

" _No, that's not what I'm saying," Sean grins._

Meisner's reminiscence was interrupted by a bout of coughing that inflamed his battered larynx. Blood spattered the floor below his face. Need to keep moving. It's getting harder. Hard never stopped him before.

He pulled himself forward a little more, passed out, woke up shivering. Breathing was becoming difficult, not in the awful way it was when Bonaparte had a vice-grip on his throat, but his lungs didn't have the strength to fill under the weight of his body. There was a disturbing wetness, like drowning in aspirated blood. Cold and tired, he just wanted someone to throw a blanket over him and tell him he could rest.

 _Hannah, in bed, running her fingers through his hair, smiling sweetly: "Du musst dich ausruhen."_

No, she wouldn't tell him to relax now. Resting meant giving up. He dragged himself another inch, then another. He couldn't really tell anymore when he'd passed out and when he hadn't, but his next coherent thought was that there were voices. He was too beat to worry that they were Black Claw operatives, there to finish the job. Anyway, they sounded concerned. And familiar. It would be arrogant of him to assume that he was the only member of Hadrian's Wall to survive the massacre. See? He knew there was a reason he was crawling toward the hall.

A woman's voice called his name, distress making her speech sound even more rough and American than usual. Gentle hands turned him over, supporting the back of his neck. The motion was too much for him, and he greyed out for a minute.

When he could focus again, it was on Trubel's face. She was sitting on the floor. There were tears in her eyes. For him? He felt bad about that, but nevertheless relief washed over him. He knew that he was probably dying. He could admit it to himself, now that doing so wouldn't interfere with his dogged efforts to survive. If anything could be done to help him, Trubel would figure it out. It wasn't his problem anymore. He wasn't scared, exactly, but he found the prospect of death daunting enough that he didn't want to face it alone. He was glad to be with someone he trusted. He tried to reach for her, but his body didn't cooperate.

Other people were there, too, but they were standing up and seemed very far away. He couldn't make out their faces or their words. Trubel had a forceful exchange with someone, and he gathered that she prevailed. Good girl. Most of the people he was responsible for had predeceased him. At least this one was tough enough to make it on her own.

Trubel started pulling Meisner up, one hand under his shoulder and the other behind his head. Burkhart came into focus as he crouched down, pulling on the other side. Meisner wanted to tell the Grimms to stop, that making him get up was a terrible idea. But his words came out as a groan, and he was out cold before he was halfway to a seated position.

XXXXX

Next up: Trubel


	2. Chapter 2

Walking through another corridor strewn with bodies, Trubel willed herself to be numb. It didn't work. Hell, even Eve seemed shaken by the carnage in the Hadrian's Wall compound. Since hooking up with the organization, Trubel had mostly interacted with Chavez, Eve, and Meisner. She hadn't become close with the rank-and-file soldiers. At heart, she wasn't a "joiner". Still, these were people she had worked beside, sharing meals and jokes and a mission. She stepped over the bloody remains of the woman who had given her a haircut when she was first let out of her cell _("Don't let Harmon do it or you'll end up looking like G.I. Jane!")_. Propped in the corner was a guy she'd filled in for once, so he could see his girlfriend on her birthday. His arm had been torn off and his throat ripped out. She hoped the latter happened before the former.

So far, they had found nobody alive. A few agents were out of the compound when Black Claw hit, and there might be some who hid or escaped. Meisner wouldn't be one of those. Dead or alive, he would either be where the fighting was worst, or where he could do the most good in terms of coordinating defense.

The door to the main control room was ajar. Trubel pushed it open and peered in, heart racing with dread. She recognized a colleague leaning against the far wall, clearly dead, and her peripheral vision detected bodies on the floor near the left wall. But her gaze was riveted to a form lying face down in the middle of the room. _Oh God. Please be alive. Please._ She wasn't sure whether she whispered it, or only screamed it inside her head.

"He's here," Eve announced to Nick and Hank, who were behind her. Trubel hurried to Meisner's side and dropped to the floor. "Meisner? Meisner!" she called.

No response. Though almost afraid to touch him, she carefully rolled him onto his back. If he was breathing at all, it was very shallow. There was blood . . . everywhere. It looked like it had been seeping from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, leaving streaks through his mustache and beard. His hands and clothes were bloody too, though Trubel couldn't see any serious entry wounds. Based on the blood spatter, he'd apparently crawled from the far corner of the room, over glass and other debris, which might account for some of the minor abrasions. His skin was ashen, with a blue tint around his mouth. He looked dead.

"No. No. No," Trubel whimpered. She lightly touched her boss' face. His eyelids fluttered.

Eve, who had been feeling for a pulse with one hand while the other hand hovered, fingers outstretched, a few inches above Meisner's chest, said, "He is alive." Then, meeting Trubel's gaze, she added in a slightly softer tone, "He won't be for much longer."

Eve explained, "He is cyanotic and his pulse is fast and weak." She held her hand above his throat and continued, "I think there was some kind of traumatic asphyxiation. He is breathing a little now, but inadequately. His body is shutting down."

"Rosalee . . . or a hospital?" Nick suggested.

"This is far beyond herbal cures. Brain damage has likely already started; by the time we get him to a hospital, it will be . . . severe. They could put him on life support, but he would not recover."

Trubel was listening, but her mind resisted processing what the other woman said. She looked down at her mentor. She knew it was childish, but she found it hard to think of him as someone who could die. As if to reinforce this notion, Meisner's eyes opened. At first there was no sense in them, but then they settled on her and she could feel that familiar strong personality. Blinking hard, she smiled and said something brilliant: "Hi."

This is the part where you're supposed to tell the injured person not to try to talk. _Screw that_ , Trubel thought, _I want as much evidence as possible that he's still here_. Meisner's lips moved a little, but Trubel didn't think he was trying to say anything, just struggling to breathe a little deeper, which she was also in favor of. "That's it," she encouraged, "You're gonna be alright." When he seemed to be losing focus, she prodded, "Hey, hey – stay with me." It worked. Tired blue eyes met her own.

She snarled at Eve, "He didn't drag himself through broken glass so we could friggin' give up on him!"

"I didn't say we should give up," Eve responded, sounding as close to hurt as she ever did. Hank appeared next to her, handing her a dented-but-intact first aid kit. They had passed the medical bay, which Black Claw had strategically reduced to rubble. But it made sense that the attackers wouldn't have bothered to destroy every single medical kit; Hank must have gone to find one. Eve opened it, took out large syringe, and attached a formidable-looking needle. She pushed up Meisner's shirt, stabbed the needle into his chest, and drew red-tinted fluid into the syringe. Meisner didn't even flinch.

"Nick! The stick!" Trubel exclaimed, to blank stares all around. She elaborated, "We can use that magic stick you found in Germany to heal him!"

Nick's face lit up, but then he frowned, "Yeah, we can try it. But I don't have it with me, and by the time I get it here, it may be too late."

Eve said, "I don't know what kind of _'magic stick'_ you are talking about, but we can't stay here while you retrieve it. Black Claw may send a follow-up crew. We need to go someplace secure."

"Is it safe to move him?" Nick asked.

"Of course not," Trubel snapped, "But it's his best shot. I say we take it."

Eve nodded. "There may be functional oxygen tanks with the underwater gear, and I can re-start his heart when it stops along the way."

Trubel didn't like the "when" in that sentence, but she was happy to have a plan. Meisner's arm twitched. She took his hand in hers. He didn't seem much aware of that, but something like approval passed through his eyes when Trubel said decisively, "Let's go!"

XXXXX

Trubel and Eve deposited Meisner on the bed in Nick's loft, and Trubel raced for the tunnel to get the stick.

Meisner had lost consciousness when she and Nick lifted him up from the floor of the compound, and he hadn't regained it since. Being suspended by his arms between them made his breathing even worse, so Nick put him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Trubel went with them to the car; Hank and Eve detoured for the oxygen and met them there. Trubel held Meisner's head and shoulders in her lap in the back seat, keeping him in a modified recovery-position, while Eve perched between the seats mcgyvering an oxygen mask out of an emergency respirator and a scuba tank. She explained that she would rather not intubate him, since she'd never done that on a human before. When Hank had asked whether it was different on humans versus wesen, Eve told them that the last person Juliette intubated was a poodle.

Nick and Hank got out near the precinct and Eve took over driving. They only had to stop once, when Trubel lost Meisner's pulse. Apparently Hexenbiests are great defibrillators.

Trubel made it back to the loft from the tunnel in record time. It was only as she unwrapped the stick that her apprehension toward the thing resurfaced. They really had no idea what they were dealing with. She had grown comfortable with the idea that wesen existed, that some wesen had unusual abilities, and that she was able to see things other people couldn't. None of this was especially supernatural; it just meant that nature was weirder than she previously thought. But a magical healing stick? That's straight out of Harry Potter. If she had a choice, she would stay as far away from magic as she could. She didn't have a choice.

She held the stick out to Eve, who turned it over in her hands and studied it intently. "So, uh, what do we do?" Trubel asked.

Eve replied, "I have never seen anything like this before. It is powerful. Probably dangerous. Did Nick tell you how to use it?"

Trubel shook her head. "He just said he was holding it, and Monroe's wound healed." When Eve went to hand the stick back to her, she drew back a little and said, "You're the witch—you do it."

Eve's lips quirked into one of her many non-expressions. "That would not be wise. It is a Grimm artifact. A Grimm should use it." She felt Meisner's carotid pulse and added, "Do it quickly."

Trubel accepted the stick back. Okay, since Nick did it by accident, there can't be much skill involved, right? He hadn't said anything about touching the stick to Monroe directly, just holding it while he touched the Blutbad. But Trubel figured she would cover all the bases. There was no specific wound to heal, yet Eve had said that the injuries may have started with strangulation. So, Trubel held the stick in her left hand and touched it to Meisner's neck, while at the same time, she placed her right hand over his heart. When nothing happened immediately, it occurred to her that direct physical contact might be necessary. She slid her right hand underneath his shirt. His skin felt cold and clammy.

She waited. Just as she was starting to feel like an idiot, she realized that she couldn't detect Meisner breathing at all. Dismayed, she looked over at Eve. But before she could say anything, Meisner inhaled in a sharp gasp and started coughing convulsively. Trubel helped him roll onto his side, where he proceeded to cough for several minutes, bringing up maybe half a liter of blood. Trubel smirked: hopefully Nick wasn't too attached to that pillowcase.

Grinning ear-to-ear, Trubel pulled a chair up next to the bed. Meisner was noticeably less cheerful than she was. He mumbled, "Ich habe getraumt . . . Wo . . . Wo sind wir hier?"

"I'm so happy to hear you talking," Trubel chuckled. "No idea what you just said."

Meisner sat up and looked around. Voice hoarse, he asked, "This is Burkhardt's place? What is going on?"

"Yep. Eve and I brought you here. What do you remember?"

"Black Claw hit us. Destroyed us . . ." He trailed off, lost in thought.

Meisner no longer looked like a corpse, but his color—what little could be seen beneath the blood—wasn't great. Taking his pulse, Eve asked, "How do you feel?"

"Okay."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Like I was run over by a truck."

Trubel laughed out loud at his interpretation of "okay". It wasn't _that_ funny, but she was so giddy right now that she might laugh at just about anything.

Meisner smiled sheepishly, adding, "Well, maybe a not-so-big truck." He tried to get up, but couldn't quite get his feet under him. Trubel helped. Once standing, he swayed a little and said weakly, "I think I need to lie down."

Trubel eased him back down to the bed. Eve flipped the pillow to the less-gory side. He was out as soon as his head touched it.

"Should we be worried?" Trubel asked Eve, worrying.

"I don't think so," said Eve. "Your 'magic stick' appears to have done its job. His vitals are good and he seems cognitively intact. Extreme fatigue is a common side effect of mystical interventions, and he did lose a lot of blood. Let him sleep."

A short time later, Hank called with the news that Nick had been arrested for slugging Renard. Apparently his fury at his boss for coercing Adalind into taking Kelly then claiming the boy as his own, and for the deaths at HW (which, as far as Nick knew, might include Meisner), had boiled over. Not for the first time, Trubel wished Nick had taken her up on her prior offer to whack the Captain in the parking lot—would have saved them all a lot of hassle.

The four of them had agreed to keep Meisner's survival, if he lived, under wraps, and instead spread the story that he'd died along with the rest of HW. It would be safer for Meisner if Black Claw thought he was dead, and it could give their side a tactical advantage in the future. So, to avoid any chance of being overheard, when Hank asked, "How's that stick working out for you?" Trubel just replied, "As advertised. I've got no complaints."

After hanging up, Trubel explained the situation to Eve, concluding, "Hank's heading back here. Wu will keep an eye on things at the station. Black Claw seems to be trying to round us up one by one—we've gotta go get Monroe and Rosalee before they do."

Both women looked over toward the bed. Dealing with whatever their enemies might throw at Monroe and Rosalee could be a two-person job—might even be another trap. Though Hank would hopefully be here soon, Trubel didn't feel right leaving Meisner alone while incapacitated. She didn't have as much faith in the security of the loft as Nick did. After all, she'd found the place herself, and Black Claw could've gotten the location out of Adalind. They needed someplace where Meisner could hide out for a little while to recuperate, with someone they trusted, but off the Black Claw radar.

She knew just the place . . .

XXXXX

Next up: Adalind. Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

Meisner was dead. And Nick was in a jail cell, where he could be eliminated by Renard and his cronies at any moment. Adalind's short phone conversation with Wu left her feeling bereft, almost like she felt when Diana was ripped away from her two years ago. People were fragile, and caring about them was dangerous.

Nick . . . Nick might still live. He had a way of getting himself out of deadly situations, with the help of his friends. There was something about him that inspired love and loyalty in others, even in her. _If he dies now, the last memory he'll have of me is me taking his son from him. He can't die. He won't._

Adalind wouldn't let herself start grieving for Nick now, not while there was still hope. But Meisner. The pain hit with sharp, uncomplicated force. He rescued her. He took care of her. He didn't expect anything from her in return. Hers was a world of scheming, quid pro quo, misdirection; and he didn't give a damn about any of that. Of course he had an agenda: he was to get her from point A to point B. But he could have done that without the subtle kindness, and since he wasn't the sort of person to bother faking it, the kindness told her that maybe she was worth it—that maybe it mattered that not only was she alive, but also warm, fed, and not too scared.

Her mind kicked up images of their interactions. It settled on the memory of going up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, just before she got on the plane. It was possibly the most chaste kiss she'd ever given a man. She'd developed a bit of a crush on Meisner, and she detected some attraction on his side too. But for once in her life, Adalind had no desire to exploit this attraction to get him to do her will. He hadn't smiled when she kissed him. He rarely did. But Adalind could tell by the way he turned inward that he appreciated the gesture. She wanted him to smile more, and not for her usual reason—smiling means the mark has been successfully duped—but because she wanted him to be happy.

She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted the salt on her lips.

Renard opened the door to the bedroom. The last thing in the world Adalind wanted was for him to see her so vulnerable. But it was too late to hide, so she channeled her pain into fury, and spat one word at him: "Meisner."

Renard's face fell.

Something about his expression stopped her cold. She was stunned to realize that she might be witnessing a genuine emotional reaction. Renard was a consummate chameleon who could manufacture whatever responses would further his interests. But Adalind knew how to play that game too, and she could almost swear that the grief in his demeanor was real.

He said quietly, "I know. Nick told me."

So much for honesty, Adalind seethed. "Nick _told_ you? You killed him yourself!"

"That may be true . . ."

He was struggling to find words, but Adalind had no patience for him. "You're not sure? What, you've killed so many people that they run together? Here's a hint: you were supposed to be friends with this one. He saved your daughter's life!"

Renard looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. He didn't respond to her anger at all, which made it dissipate a little. She held her tongue, giving him a chance to explain himself.

"I left him for dead. I hoped he would survive."

That wasn't much better than murdering him outright, but something about the desolation in his tone gave Adalind pause.

He seemed to go through an internal struggle, before meeting her gaze and pleading, "There are things I need to tell you. But to do so, I have to make sure we have absolute privacy. Will you play along?"

She nodded, intrigued despite her misgivings.

They spent the next hour doing what Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests did best: working the room, manipulating the perceptions of those around them. He went down to the kitchen for ice to put on the bruises Nick had inflicted. She ran into him there, at first mocking him, but then smoothing the edges of her jibes so they drifted into teasing. He poured her a stiff drink, then remembered that she was breastfeeding, so he knocked it back himself and put a small splash of brandy into hot chocolate for her. She rolled her eyes, but in a way that made it seem like she found him charming in spite of herself. Together they crafted an image of an estranged couple who were just starting to recall what they liked about each other in the first place.

It was a masterful performance. It had to be. Their "audience" was a full Zauberbiest, various staff who reported to him, and perhaps their own daughter. The first was only present for part of the evening, and the last had already gone to bed for the night. No matter; both seemed to be always watching. As Adalind headed up the stairs, she overheard Renard checking in with Bonaparte to make sure the elder man didn't need anything from him that evening, implying that he might want some time alone with his "new fiancé". He said it in the not-really-reproachful way one might regard a kindly but intrusive uncle who surprised one's girlfriend with a family heirloom, rather than an evil monster who put a magical leash around her finger and threatened harm to her children should she remove it.

When Sean came to her bedroom door, she murmured demurely about not wanting to get their daughter's hopes up. He persisted, but played the good parent, noting that some privacy from little eyes and ears might be helpful. Adalind giggled and pulled him into the room by the arm, casting a muffling spell as she closed the door behind them. She deliberately chose a run-of-the-mill spell, one that would only provide maybe an hour of true protection before fading, and which could be overcome pretty easily by a counter-spell—though not without her noticing. Their goal for the evening wasn't to block Bonaparte from spying on them, but to convince him that it would be against his family-values-bullshit agenda to do so.

As soon as they were safely in the protected zone, Adalind increased her grip on Renard's arm, pushed him to arm's length facing her, then released him. "Now talk," she ordered.

"I don't know where to—"

"Start with today."

"Black Claw hit Hadrian's Wall. We lured some of their strongest people away, and massacred the rest. Meisner was still alive when I got there. But Bonaparte . . . Bonaparte started choking him from across the room, killing him slowly. He was bleeding from his eyes and I . . . I did the only thing I could do. I hit Martin hard, throwing him backward and breaking Bonaparte's hold on him. Maybe I was too late, or maybe my blow was what finished him off."

Adalind fought back tears as she charged, "Here's what else you could have done: attacked the old buzzard instead of attacking Meisner."

"Really? You've seen what he is, what he can do. I can't go up against that," Renard admitted. After a pause, he continued, "Besides, we had an agreement."

"You and Bonaparte?" Adalind scoffed.

"No. Me and Meisner."

Adalind stared. Renard sighed and continued, "You think I just woke up one day and decided I wanted to be mayor of Portland? I wanted revenge on Black Claw for killing Andrew Dixon, and I wanted to use their power to enhance my own. Meisner needed an inside man, someone devious enough that everybody would believe he'd gone over to the dark side. The deal was, nobody would know except me and him, otherwise it might get back to the wrong person and jeopardize my cover. We agreed that, if necessary to maintain the ruse, either of our lives could be forfeit." After a pause, he added, "It is possible that he took the self-sacrificing part of the agreement more literally than I did."

Adalind glared at him, scanning his features to determine whether the last part was a sick joke. It wasn't. It was a simple truth: self-sacrifice did not come naturally to Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests. That didn't mean it was impossible for them. Adalind was sure she could give up her life for her children, and she could risk her life for Nick. But those were people, not political ideals. Altruism in the abstract, giving up one's life for a cause . . . this was a foreign notion to their kind.

She lamented, "If everyone's life can be sacrificed, what's the point?"

"Not everyone's. Not yours. Not Diana's."

"Meisner agreed to this?"

"He insisted on it."

Adalind swallowed hard. "Now what?" she whispered.

"I honestly don't know. I wasn't reporting to Meisner. The goal was for me to work my way as high up the food chain as I could, positioning myself to get the most intel and potentially cause the most damage. When I was in place, we would reconnect. But now, without anyone to vouch for me, even if I succeed nobody will believe me. Your boyfriend and his crew will still want to kill me. I'm almost better off if Black Claw wins."

"That may be true," said Adalind tartly, "But is that the world you want Diana to grow up in? A world with Bonaparte pulling the strings—pulling _your_ strings?"

Renard scowled at her. He glanced away for a moment, then looked back and asked in an uncharacteristically tentative tone, "Will you be with me?"

Adalind snarked, "If that's a proposal, I think it's already been taken care of." She wiggled the fingers on her left hand, making the new ring glitter.

"Not like that," he shot back, "I mean will you work with me, like we did tonight?"

She replied, "On one condition: we add two names to the do-not-sacrifice list."

Renard raised his eyebrows expectantly.

She listed, "Kelly."

"Done," he said immediately.

"And Nick."

Renard pursed his lips. "I will try to avoid killing Nick, but you have to know that there isn't much I can do for him. If he wants to live, he needs to stop doing dumb things like assaulting his superior officer—and mayor—in front of witnesses. He's in police custody, and soon he'll be transferred out of my precinct and into Bonaparte's hands. I'll let Wu stay on tonight. He's sure to relay information to Hank, Monroe, and Trubel. Maybe they'll come up with something. That's the best I can do."

Adalind wasn't satisfied, but, reluctantly, she nodded. An alliance was formed.

XXXXX

Sean Renard drove toward Nick Burkhard's residence, with Conrad Bonaparte seated beside him. After much thought he concluded that, as was so often the case, everyone else was wrong and he was right.

It had been an eventful day. He'd killed a friend. His lover had been murdered, presumably by his young daughter. He'd come clean with Adalind and enlisted her support. And, just now, he'd stood by helplessly as Bonaparte did his notorious chokehold trick on Adalind, forcing her to reveal Nick's home address. Adalind seemed to think she could get a warning out to Nick. Renard left her to it, as he accompanied Bonaparte to what might well be the scene of the next massacre.

All of this led Renard to the realization that Bonaparte needed to die. And, more importantly, that Bonaparte _could_ be taken down. True, he was powerful. But he wasn't nearly as clever as he thought he was. He projected an image of culture and refinement, but, where it counted, he depended on brute force when finesse would serve better.

As a case in point, Meisner would have been more valuable as a live hostage than a dead martyr. Bonaparte had apparently done enough research to learn that he would be resistant to torture, and that Hadrian's Wall would not negotiate for his life. Fair enough. But nobody is completely impervious to psychological coercion, and Bonaparte had someone who knew the German agent well at his disposal to show him what buttons to push. If Renard refused to help emotionally destroy his old comrade, well, that would tell Bonaparte something too. Since Martin was one of the most stubborn people Renard knew, all of this probably wouldn't result in much usable information. But it would serve a greater goal that Bonaparte had completely overlooked: luring Trubel into their hands. Everyone was so focused on getting at Nick that they forgot about the baby Grimm. She was young, impulsive, and had worked closely with Meisner. Lean on him and she'll do something stupid to try to help him. Get her and you've got one Grimm, plus leverage over another.

Further evidence of Bonaparte's short-sightedness was his use of force against Adalind, where surveillance and sleuthing should have sufficed long ago to learn a simple address. The strong-arm approach undermined Bonaparte's long term goal of bringing her on board. It also pissed off the father of her child—who, in Renard's not-so-humble opinion, ought not be underestimated.

Renard glanced over at the older man, who briefly looked up from his phone. He schooled his features to look appropriately subservient. Determining how, exactly, to bring about Bonaparte's death would require some thought.

As for what everybody else was wrong about, they were all wrong about Black Claw, though in various ways. Those who opposed the movement thought it could, and should, be defeated. Burkhardt believed it was as simple as the good guys beating the bad guys: the noble Grimms defeating the dangerous Wesen. Meisner wasn't quite so naïve. But he was wrong about the possibility of beating Black Claw by amassing intelligence and firepower against them. You can't wage a traditional war against a grass-roots mob with a constantly shifting command hierarchy. Cut off one head and more will grow back.

More importantly, they'd missed the point that Black Claw would be nearly impossible to beat because, at least with regard to its foundational goal, Black Claw was in the right. It is completely insane that a large portion of the population needs to hide their true nature from the rest. Oppressed groups throw off their oppressors; that's just how history works. Once there is a crack in the dam—which Black Claw made—there is no turning back the tide. Nor should there be. It is hard to hold the moral high ground when you are defending an unethical status quo.

Of course, Black Claw got things wrong, too. Their basic goal of letting Wesen become "unhidden" may be sound, but the movement was run by an assortment of psychopaths who couldn't think beyond next month's body count. Also, they wanted to end the oppression of Wesen by turning around and killing or oppressing non-Wesen. Of course the Kehrseite, and Wesen who care about their welfare, won't go for that. It's as if Martin Luther King Jr. pushed for civil rights with the goal that blacks would subjugate whites, rather than be equal to them. Furthermore, Black Claw was happy to engage in gratuitous violence to achieve their ends; in fact, for many of them, violence seemed to be their main end, with vague gestures toward liberation as an afterthought. Renard knew better than to expect that the move toward civil rights for Wesen citizens could be a completely bloodless revolution, but that didn't mean a bloodbath was acceptable. Not in his city.

Renard and Bonaparte arrived at the industrial area where, apparently, Nick lives. Renard spied cameras near the entrance, so he parked a short distance off. They were not the first to arrive; Bonaparte had called in a substantial strike team, who had already breached the door, awaiting the order to advance.

"Go," Bonaparte said, his voice quiet yet commanding, "I would prefer the Grimm alive, for now. Kill the others."

Renard would have liked to have gone in with the strike team, but Bonaparte motioned him to wait, and he didn't have good reason to defy the man right now. While he would prefer it if at least Hank and Wu made it out of this alive, he wouldn't really be able to do anything to ensure that anyway. So he waited.

Several minutes, two waves of troops, and a hell of a lot of gunfire later, Renard and Bonaparte entered the living area. It was strewn with bodies—all of them Black Claw, as far as Renard could tell. The only one left standing was Nick. That didn't make much sense. Nick was tough, but not clear-the-room-of-heavily-armed-fighters tough. Perhaps Trubel, Monroe, and the others had helped him fight, and he was covering their escape. Even assuming that turn of events, it was impressive.

Bonaparte gave voice to the surprise Renard felt: "I underestimated you. I didn't think a Grimm could do this." He didn't dwell on the mystery, however. "Book or no book, I should have killed you when I had the chance. But I won't make that mistake again."

For the third time today, Renard had a front row seat as Bonaparte telepathically choked someone. Perhaps he was becoming desensitized to the brutality of the move, because this time he was able to think more strategically about what to do. Unfortunately, he still came up with nothing good. Bonaparte had made it clear that he was willing to sacrifice a key objective—obtaining the Grimm genealogy—to be rid of Nick. Renard didn't have anything better than that to use to re-direct the man.

Renard noticed something odd. Nick's back was arched, head back, as he fought to breathe, giving Renard a great view of his shirt. There were bullet holes in it. Several. A little fresh blood ringed each one, but the wounds were no longer bleeding. If he was wearing Kevlar, there wouldn't be blood, at least not in that pattern. If he wasn't wearing Kevlar, he should be dead.

Then Renard noticed something even odder: his own hand reaching for a sword that had been dropped by one of the fallen combatants. Part of his brain felt like this was the most natural thing in the world to do, but another part felt like a spectator in his own body. Before he could parse this out, the sword hit home, right through Bonaparte's back.

The Zauberbiest looked surprised as he fell, but not nearly as surprised as both Nick and Renard. For a moment, they shared a profound thought: _oh, crap!_

Putting two and two together, Renard made a mental note for his parental to-do list. Not only did he and Adalind need to talk to Diana about not pushing people to get together, and not killing people, now they would have to add not pushing people to kill people to the list. Who knew the "terrible twos" could be quite this terrible?

But that was a problem for another day. Right now, he needed to deal with Nick. Addressing the younger man, he said, "Three things: First, I'm not your enemy. Second, I won't harm your son. Third," he nodded down at Bonaparte's corpse "I'm going to blame you for this."

Rage had started to creep back into Burkhardt's eyes, so Renard decided to make his exit. He still wasn't sure what to make of the bullet holes in Nick's shirt, but if the Grimm was, somehow, impervious to harm, it would be a bad idea to tangle with him now. Renard wiped the handgrip of the sword against his jacket and dropped it, using that motion to cover aiming his gun. He shot Nick in both knees and ran for the elevator.

XXXXX

Next up: back to Meisner.


	4. Chapter 4

Meisner sank into the couch where Trubel had left him, head leaning against the backrest, in a living room that could best be described as "homey". There were fleece throws draped over much of the furniture, and games and books were stowed neatly in a storage unit. Family photos competed with whittled art projects for available space on the mantel and walls.

A short, stocky man in his fifties stood in front of Meisner. Trubel had introduced him when they arrived, but Meisner was so exhausted that he was too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to remember much of what she said. He gathered that the guy was going to let him stay there for the night, for which he was grateful. Unfortunately, the man seemed to think this required a lot of talking:

"So you're friends with Trubel, huh? I guess that means you know Nick, too. Great guy, Nick. The first time I met him though, I'll tell you, I was a bit freaked out. I mean—a Grimm, right here in Portland! Not that that's a bad thing, of course. You've gotta have Grimms to step in when things go wrong. But you don't necessarily want to come face to face with one, 'cause, you know, what with the chopping off people's heads and all. Of course, I wasn't doing anything wrong, so there wasn't really anything to worry about, but I didn't realize that 'till later, after I got to know him better . . ."

The man was perfectly friendly, but had a nervous energy level that seemed only a few steps short of a panic attack. Spouting rapid-fire phrases, bobbing and gesturing emphatically—the whole package made Meisner's head spin. He tried to float along with the stream of words, but was buffeted by currents he couldn't keep up with. _Maybe if I close my eyes he'll stop talking._

"My wife is checking to make sure the bed in the guest room is made up. This isn't the first time Nick or Trubel have dropped in on us with houseguests to hide. Not that we mind—no not at all! Always happy to help out! And not that you're hiding. I didn't mean to suggest that you were hiding from someone . . . Anyway, I'm sure you have a very good reason for not hiding, I mean, uh, for not wanting to be, ah, found. Probably has something to do with all the blood. None of my business, I know . . ."

Closing his eyes was not the best decision he'd made. It did nothing to deter his host from rambling on, and now he was having a hard time opening them again. _The bed is far away and the couch is right here. Here is good. I could sleep here._

He must have nodded off, because when he tuned in again the other man was standing close, trying to get his attention without actually touching him: ". . . Okay? Anyway, I hate to bother you, but my kids will be up for breakfast in the morning and I don't want them panicking, you know, seeing as you look like you walked through a slaughter house. I've been known to get a bit woozy at the sight of blood myself. Not that I'm going to faint or anything . . ."

He kind of looked like he might. _Oh lord, this nice guy is letting me stay at his house. The least I can do is not scare his family._ Speaking was too much effort, but Meisner made eye contact and nodded. Then he hauled himself to his feet and followed the man toward a cozy bedroom. Before entering the room, Meisner detoured briefly into the bathroom across the hall, to use the facilities and to try to wash the worst of the gore off his face and hands.

Guilt-fueled burst of energy spent, he stumbled into the bedroom. The older man provided a sturdy shoulder to lean on, and kept up a steady stream of chatter as he helped Meisner get out of his battered and stained clothes. Somehow, with the relatively dimmer bedroom lighting and his voice hushed to avoid waking the kids, the incessant talking became more soothing than irritating. It maybe even helped make a potentially embarrassing situation easier.

Meisner fell into bed and slept for twelve hours. When he woke up, it was around noon and the house was quiet. He put on the pajama bottoms and t-shirt that were helpfully left on the bedside table, and went out to the living area, then through to the kitchen. The talkative man from last night—whom he now knew was called "Bud", based on the patch on his work-shirt—greeted him with a big smile, "Hey, you're awake! I was starting to get worried! The wife just left, but I'm here for a while, taking a lunch break. Are you hungry?"

Meisner was, actually, very hungry. "Yes, thanks," he replied. Bud was already pulling out lots of food from a well-stocked refrigerator. No wonder Trubel liked this guy!

As they ate sandwiches and really excellent pie, Meisner tried to get his bearings. "I lost my phone," he told Bud, "I need to get a message to Trubel. Can you contact her for me?"

"Sure. Sure. But I tried to reach her this morning and just got voicemail. What's your message?"

"Don't kill Renard."

"Oooo-kay." He handed Meisner his phone. Meisner sent a quick text.

"Speaking of killing—which, yikes!—you know you're supposed to be dead, right? I don't mean you're _supposed_ to be dead, but you almost were. And there was some magic thing that happened that made you not. Not dead, that is. That's what Trubel said, anyway. And she said it was better if everybody thinks you really are dead for a while. Hooo, all this death stuff is giving me the creeps—almost feels like I'm having an out of body experience myself! Of course, my life flashes before my eyes every time I go to the dentist . . ."

Meisner couldn't help but smile a little, now that he was getting used to his companion's frenzied monologues. As for his own near-death experience, his life hadn't flashed before his eyes. No tunnels, no bright lights. He did recall some vivid dreams, almost hallucinations, just as he felt himself being pulled back from the edge of oblivion. In a lot of them, he was fighting. Some might think the fact that his subconscious experiences were pretty much exactly the same as his waking life indicated a certain shallowness. Meisner just thought it was efficient.

Most of the dreams blurred together, but there was one he remembered distinctly: he was sparring with a boy in his late teens, training him. Somehow he knew that the boy was Kelly. That struck him as odd. If he was going to dream about one of Adalind's children, shouldn't it be Diana? The other strange thing was how aware he had been of his own body. He'd felt himself compensating for stiffness in his knee and shoulder, and he was moving a little slower than usual—though still fast enough to take the kid down a few times. He supposed it made sense; when Kelly is that age, he would be around sixty, himself. But since when are dreams so precise about such things?

Bud had moved on to talking about his plans for the day. Apparently he repaired kitchen appliances, and had a quick job to do nearby, but then the rest of the afternoon he would be working with a group of friends to try to fix up the damage done last night. That last part piqued Meisner's interest.

Bud explained, "Every so often, lately, a bunch of jerks decides it would be fun to vandalize the businesses of hard-working Wesen. It started a few months ago, when those Black Claw assholes—pardon my French—went around attacking people and trashing shops. Last night was a doozy: more than a dozen break-ins, four with major structural damage."

"Black Claw?" Meisner inquired, trying to feel out how much Bud knew about the situation.

"I don't know if these are the same guys, or if they just like causing trouble," Bud replied, then he started fretting, "Uh, I'm not sure I'm supposed to be talking about them. Probably shouldn't. So, forget I mentioned you-know-who, 'cause maybe—"

Meisner interrupted him before he could get too far into his anxiety spiral, "Don't worry. I already know about Black Claw. I'm part of an organization that fights them." He didn't name Hadrian's Wall or offer details, since perhaps keeping things under wraps was not Bud's forte.

"So, ah, how's that going?" Bud asked.

"Not so great," was Meisner's deadpan reply.

"Well, any time you-know-who trashes our properties, a bunch of us make sure everything is fixed up pronto. Lots of Eisbibers in the building trades. We help each other out, and we lend a hand to other Wesen—Mausherzen, Seelengut, you know, the ones who get picked on. We always get it done the very next day, kind of an 'F—you' to the thugs who think they can keep us down."

Meisner thought this had to be the least aggressive 'F—you' he'd ever heard. It was kind of sweet.

"Come to think of it," Bud continued, "There's a guy who maybe you should meet. Black Claw killed off . . . well, let's say, they caused him some problems, and I think he wants to fight back, but he's trying to keep things on the down low. Anyway, if you want to come with me today, you can meet him. Well, not him, but someone who can contact him."

It was a vague invitation, and Meisner gave a noncommittal response. Conferring with one of the many people who'd been screwed over by Black Claw wasn't his top priority. Then again, if he was still out of touch with those who could give him the information he needed to decide his next move, he might as well make his host happy.

XXXXX

A couple of hours later, Meisner found himself in the middle of a buzzing construction zone. Earlier, while Bud was completing his nearby job, Meisner sent messages to the higher-ups in Hadrian's Wall, via a relay system that valued security over speed. He also took a shower. Unable to get the bloodstains out of his beard and mustache, he shaved them off. It was easier to start over; besides, it would temporarily make him harder to identify. Bud (or maybe his wife, Phoebe) had put Meisner's clothes through the wash, with mixed results. Fortunately, his jeans had survived yesterday's ordeal reasonably well—a good thing, since pants were something he couldn't easily borrow from Bud. He kept the t-shirt he'd put on when he woke up, and added a hooded zip-up sweatshirt, managing to find one in Bud's closet that both fit him reasonably well and was not covered with the Oregon State University logo.

When it comes to flying under the radar, you don't get much more low-profile than hanging out with a bunch of Eisbibers. Well, except for staying in the house, of course, but he'd just slept for half a day; he wasn't going to sit around doing nothing. Hadrian's Wall was aware of the various Wesen social organizations, the Eisbibers' Lodge system being one of the more extensive networks. They weren't considered to be important players in the conflict with Black Claw, so neither side really monitored their activities. From what he saw today, Meisner was starting to think that ignoring them might be a mistake.

Bud's specialty was refrigeration and he had some knowledge of heating and cooling systems, so they went from one site to another, wherever his skills were relevant. Other people swarmed in and out, as needed, to do demo, drywall, electrical, painting, etc. Meisner didn't have any expertise in this kind of work, but he could carry things and follow directions, so he did. The whole operation, spread over several scattered locations, had the friendly vibe of a block party alongside the efficiency of a well-trained militia. The level of organization was impressive. Though not likely to want to join in combat, a large cohesive group of civic-minded Wesen, who were pissed off at Black Claw, was a resource worth considering.

Meisner and Bud came upon a woman painting a wall, whom Bud identified as Monique, "the person who knows the guy who had the trouble with you-know-who." He introduced Meisner to her as "my friend Martin." The exchange left Meisner wondering how much energy Bud must exert keeping straight all the entities he doesn't want to refer to directly, and also wondering what it is like to consider someone a friend after knowing him for less than a day.

Monique scrutinized Meisner with an intensity that went beyond the curious gazes he'd attracted all day. He knew he stood out amongst this crowd—taller than most, and without a shred of timidity—but they were too polite to ask what he was. Monique didn't ask either, though when Bud said that he was involved with a group that was fighting "the guys who did this" and might want to talk to "your new friend", she did inquire, "You're not a Grimm, are you?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm not."

She shrugged and said, "I'll call him. If he's interested, I'll have my cousin take you there."

XXXXX

Later that afternoon, Meisner rode in the backseat of Bud's car, as Monique's cousin, Mel, directed them to a nondescript motel outside the city. Mel sent a text to they man they were meeting, then reached for the door handle to get out of the car.

"Wait," said Meisner. He scanned the area. There were about a dozen cars in the parking lot, all unoccupied. To the east of the lot was a wooded area. Meisner detected a suspicious glint of light reflected through the trees. Someone was casing the place, using binoculars. As he watched, the man moved closer to the building, followed by a companion armed with a handgun.

"Tell your guy to stay put," Meisner ordered.

"He's not answering his phone," squeaked Mel.

"I don't suppose you have any weapons?" Meisner asked Bud, who shook his head, wide-eyed.

Meisner grabbed a large wrench from among the tools in the hatchback. A little voice inside his head said, _'Really? You can't lay low for even one day?'_ It sounded a lot like Sebastien. As an afterthought, he picked up a baseball cap that had been tossed in the back and put it on.

Meisner made his way quietly through the trees and came, unnoticed, alongside the man with the drawn gun. He spun around from behind an old oak, slamming the wrench into the man's temple. The guy was out before he knew what hit him, without raising an alarm. It took the man with the binoculars a moment to realize that his buddy was missing, and by then Meisner was almost on top of him. He let go of his binoculars and managed to pull his gun out of his shoulder holster, but Meisner swung the wrench down on his hand, disarming him, then brought it up and bashed him across the face with it. This guy was big. The blows staggered him, but didn't take him down. He shoved Meisner back and threw a punch. Meisner ducked to the side, grabbed the guy's arm, and used the momentum from the punch to flip the guy over, dumping him hard onto his back. A kick to the jaw kept him down and out.

 _See—I can be subtle, mon ami._

 _Only you would consider hitting people with a wrench to be subtlety._

Meisner scanned the area. He saw Bud and Mel, watching slack-jawed from the car. A man in a leather jacket came around the side of the building, and a man in a suit appeared on a second floor fire escape—tall, with dark hair and striking features. The first man hurried toward the woods, further east from where Meisner stood. The second woged. Naturally, Meisner couldn't see the transformation, but a slight tilt of the man's head, followed by gasps from Bud and Mel in the car, told him that the man had morphed into something fierce. The fact that he practically flew off the fire escape and easily closed the distance between himself and the man in the leather jacket told Meisner that he'd morphed into something fast.

The two men's trajectories coincided just inside the tree-line. Meisner saw leaves rustle, but heard almost nothing. A moment later, the second man emerged, brushing off the sleeves of his suit coat. He ducked inside the building, came out carrying a travel bag, and headed for Bud's car. He got into the car via the right rear door. Meisner keept watch over the area, then slipped into the car through the left rear door, tossing the cap and wrench back where he found them. As soon as they were in, Mel got out and ran a few yards toward a trash can.

"He'll be back," Bud explained, "He just had to, uh . . . vomit."

The other man addressed Meisner in a cultured accent, "Thank you. I wasn't sure I could take down all three without being seen, or without one managing to call for backup."

"No problem."

"You are with Hadrian's Wall?"

Meisner nodded. Apparently the man had put this together from the meager information Bud had conveyed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the dark-haired man said. "I may understand better than most. Until recently I was in the employ of the Wesen council. I am now its sole survivor. My name is Alexander."

XXXXX

Next up: I think I'll go back to Trubel. Any suggestions as to where the tunnel under Nick's loft goes? Other feedback is also welcome.


End file.
